Good Ryan Atwood
by Connell
Summary: In which Ryan's a game of "Texas Hold'em" and Sandy's "Go Fish." Set in Newport sometime in early Fall of 2003. Let's just say that Sandy learns that Ryan's got some...uh...issues. Yeah, like tell us something we don't already know, Sandy!


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It's just a one shot. I'm sure it's been done before and probably much better than here. I only hope it doesn't suck too badly.

Yeah, I know…"don't say 'suck.' " Unless it totally does. In which case, please feel free to tell me about it in excruciating detail.

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GOOD RYAN ATWOOD 

As Ryan approaches the main residence from his quarters in the Cohens' pool house, he's surprised to see Sandy sitting at the kitchen table with his back to the door. Out of sheer force of habit—without even consciously knowing that he's doing it—he takes a few seconds to observehis guardian from the relative safety afforded by the glass barrier between them. He pauses and watches carefully, secure in the absolute certainty thatSandy is entirely unaware that he's being studied—he's oblivious to the boy's presence.

It's not that Ryan's afraid of the perpetually rumpled attorney. Not at all. It's quite the opposite. Sandy has a unique gift of making those around him feel comfortable and Ryan's no exception. He's generally relaxed in the company of his guardian. He also knows that he'll forever be indebted to Sandy—to all the Cohens—for their kindness and generosity over the course of the last few months. He had no expectation that Sandy would invite him into his own home that evening when he'd made the impulsive and desperate call to the virtual stranger. To the court-appointed public defender he'd only just met—when he couldn't find a place to stay after AJ kicked his ass and his mother kicked him out.

To this day, he's still not entirely sure why he placed the fateful call. Oh, he'd been scared, sure—he'd been angry, too. But it was more than that. He'd been scared and angry before. Hell, he'd spent the last severalmonths leading up to that afternoon in an almost constant state of fear and anger.

No, the best he can figure is that he'd called Sandy because he'd felt so fucking alone. Alone in a way he'd never experienced before. Overcome by such a paralyzing and overwhelming awareness that he had nothing and no one and nowhere to go. And he didn't. Because his mother had kicked him out with nothing but the clothes on his back, a hastily filled backpack and the bike on which he fled—because the rest of his family was incarcerated—and because he couldn't even find one lousy person willing or able to let him crash for one fucking night.

Ryan knows that what the Cohens have already done for him in the short time that he's known them is immeasurable. It's more than he ever expected—or ever deserved. It's such an insurmountable debt that he cringes inwardly when they add to the tally. Which they do. Incessantly. He internally flinches with every meal he eats, every article of clothing he accepts, every book, every gadget, every class he takes at the school where the tuition is almost certainly more than his mother has ever made in a year—will ever make in a year. His internal register is constantly adding to the count—the numerals flipping upward at an astounding and incalculable rate.

So, it's not because he's afraid of Sandy that he pauses before opening the kitchen door. It's because Ryan's had a lifetime of training. A lifetime of knowing the importance of being able to instantly gauge the atmosphere of a room, and the mood of it's occupants, in just a glance. A lifetime of self-preservation that has relied almost exclusively on his ability to accurately assess the minutiae of the body language and the other non-verbal cues of those who surround him and who are in control of his life.

And what Ryan sees through the wall of glass doesn't entirely reassure him. Sandy's head is tilted back, his eyes are closed and he's pinching the bridge of his nose with the thumb and the index finger of his right hand. He's anxious, tired, overwhelmed—or maybe even a combination of the three. But, there's nothing in his demeanor that sounds the alarm that's been hardwired into the boy's very being. There's nothing in his bearing to suggest that he's in imminent danger.

Ryan can see that Sandy has a folder open on the table and that there are papers spread out before him--and heassumes that the attorney is preoccupied with the lawsuit involving the wetlands and Mr. Nichol's housing development. The one that's been taking up so much of Sandy's time and has Kirsten and him on edge and constantly snipping at each other. Ryan briefly considers avoiding Sandy, altogether. It would be easy to bypass the main house, the kitchen and its sole occupant. But, he knows that the BMW hadn't been in the driveway when he came home just 15 minutes earlier. He knows that Sandy must have passed right by his bike, where he'd so hastily dropped it at the front steps. So, Sandy must know he's here. And it's because he doesn't want to be impolite thatRyan reaches for the handle on the door.

Sandy jumps a little at the unmistakable and unanticipated sound of the door opening behind him. His hand drops from his face, his head turns quickly and his eyes widen as they focus on the unexpected sight coming through the door.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to sneak up on you." Ryan offers an automatic apology--and a tentative grin--when he sees the effect his appearance has on Sandy.

"Oh, hey, Ryan." Sandy's greeting is cheerful enough, but it sounds somehow forced—hollow, even. The lawyer's hands immediately drop to the table and sweep up the pictures and other documents scattered before him. He gathers them into a single pile and then puts his hands protectively over the top of them. Splays his fingers to shield them from the teenager's view. "I didn't know you were here—I thought—I mean—Hey, aren't you supposed to be in school?"

"Yeah." Ryan holds up the maroon practice jersey he'd inadvertently forgotten to pack in his haste to get to school on time. "I just came back for this. My bike's out front. I thought—I mean—you didn't see it?" Ryan's painfully aware that the verbal hitch in his response is a near echo of Sandy's. So he knows that they're both uncomfortable. And if they're both uncomfortable, then he also knows that something's not right.

And as much as he wants to continue believing that the folder that's sitting in front of Sandy with the pictures and the papers has everything to do with environmental issues and outrageously priced residential real estate development and absolutely nothing to do with himself, he just can't imagine whySandy would be visibly unnerved by the possibility that the a 16-year-old kidmight have inadvertently seen something regarding the Balboa Land Trust, The Newport Group or the wetlands that are the point of contention between the two.

"What's that?" Ryan asks the obvious question, pointing his chin toward the folder and craning his neck, just a little bit, trying to get a glimpse.

"What? This?" Sandy takes the opportunity to quickly shove the documents back into the folder and turn the whole thing upside down. He grips the sides of the folder tightly shut with both hands and taps it lightly on the table before weakly finishing. "It's nothing."

Ryan waits in silence for a few seconds and tries to read Sandy's face in light of his own non-response. He notes how the corners of Sandy's mouth twitch just slightly with the visible strain of trying to maintain his usually effortless grin.

"Nothing, huh?" He finally says, not even trying to hide his skepticism.

"Well, it's nothing for you to worry about, anyway." Sandy holds the smile unconvincingly for another few seconds before switching tactics—switching subjects abruptly. "You're not missing a class right now, are you? Dr Kim's not waiting by the front door to chew your head off and spit it right back out at you? Do you need a ride back—or a lawyer?"

"No thanks." Ryan doesn't respond to the forced levity. "I've got a free period. Nothing else till practice. I can ride my bike. I've got plenty of time." He waits a few seconds, but Sandy doesn't say anything else.

"So—I guess I'll see you later." Ryan awkwardly offers and takes a few steps away. As he reaches the kitchen's doorway, he throws another inquisitive glance back at Sandy—sees that he's resumed staring at the folder in his hands.

"Um, Ryan, wait a sec." Sandy softly calls to the boy's departing form. It's almost as if he's hoping Ryan won't hear—that Ryan will continue walking. But the boy was half-expecting to be summoned back. So he stops, turns and waits.

"This." Sandy gestures, extending his wrist, pointing the folder at him. "Is your social services file."

Ryan nods as he slowly walks back towards Sandy. "Yeah, but—you've already seen it, right? I mean—they gave it to you when they made you take my case—or—I mean—they must have given it to you when you decided to—to do the whole guardianship thing." Ryan's words are tripping over themselves as he tries to squelch the dread that's rising within him. The panic that accompanies his realization that Sandy's look of defeat is directly related to the file in front of him. Ryan's file. And he can't help but think that the Sandy's sudden unease with him is a harbinger of a quick and disastrous end to his fortunate and improbable stay with the Cohens.

"Yes and no. I mean—well, obviously, I asked for your file when I was appointed to represent you. They gave me everything San Bernardino had and—well—it wasn't much. There was a notation on the first page that your case had been transferred from Fresno, but nothing else. Fresno County must not have forwarded its file when Dawn moved you to Chino. I had one of our investigators at the office look into it for me. He brought me this today." Sandy raises the folder again and lets it fall heavily to the table.

Ryan's suddenly having a lot of trouble swallowing over the tremendous egg that's lodged in his throat. He knows that there are pictures in the folder. There are police reports and doctor's records. There are notations taken by some underpaid government lackey who had no fucking clue what was going on and didn't even bother to find out. Some lady who made snap judgments, assessed the situation without bothering to find out any of the facts and filled out the standardized forms with no real knowledge of what happened.

The silence in the room lengthens as Sandy tries to find the right words to say and Ryan tries to figure out how to leave the situation—the whole last couple of months—with at least a shred of his dignity intact.

"Do you want to see it?" Sandy finally offers, laying the folder down on the table, putting three fingers on it and pushing it towards the boy. He's hoping that they can talk candidly about its contents.

Ryan continues to shake his head, takes a step back, looks down and folds his arms protectively across his chest.

"No."

"You sure?" Sandy offers again, pushing the folder just a little bit closer to the boy. Ryan answers with a curt nod and a prolonged silence.

He recalls one of the first things Sandy ever said to him—"_I get it, we're cut from the same deck_." If they're cut from the same deck, then there's got to be a thick file in New York somewhere holding all of the Cohen family's dirty little secrets.

"Do you want to see yours?" He finally asks, almost breathless, stealing a glimpse in Sandy's direction without raising his head--sees how Sandy's eyebrows knit with confusion.

"What do you mean?"

Ryan lifts his head to look directly at Sandy—almost challenging him. "Your social services file. Do you want to see your pictures? Read what they wrote about you? See what neat little pigeon-holes they decided to cram your life into?"

"No, Ryan. It's not—it's not like that."

"You're the one who said we're cut from the same deck. So where's your file? Or, didn't you ever get hit?"

"No. Well, yes, but not like that. Not like this." Sandy opens the file, flips through a couple of pictures, before stopping at one. He visibly flinches before turning it to Ryan, showing him the Polaroid of the young boy he had once been. The unsmiling 8-year-old—lookingexposed and vulnerable. Shirtless, to show the discoloration in the shape of a hand print on his upper left arm. The pinched face, the bruised eye-socket, the dried blood around his nostrils and on his upper lip and chin.

"That's nothing." Ryan insists, even though he won't look at the picture that Sandy's extending in his direction.

"Nothing? How can you say it's nothing?" Sandy gestures with the picture again.

"I'm just saying these pictures. This…all of it." Ryan waves a dismissive hand at the file. "It means nothing. None of it means anything."

"I don't believe that." Sandy insists. "Look at it, Ryan. Look at the bruises. The black eye, the bloody nose. It doesn't mean nothing. Look at your face—your eyes. You're terrified—that's _something_."

"It's just a picture, Sandy." Ryan insists, finally reaching out and taking the photo from the lawyer's outstretched hand.

"It shows how you looked at the time. A picture doesn't lie."

"And you think I looked scared here?"

"You looked terrified."

"Yeah, well—" Ryan finally looks down at the picture he's holding. Sees the small bruised and battered body he used to occupy. Regards it for a few seconds before meeting Sandy's eye. "You're right. I was scared shitless. But not because of what you think. I was terrified that they were going to arrest my dad—they were going to take us away—Trey and me—and put us in foster care. That my mom was going to be left alone—and that it was all going to be my fault. That's why I was scared. Not because of whatever it says in the file. Because that file? Is bullshit." Ryan does his best to feignnonchalance as he cavalierly tosses the picture back on the table--fails miserably.

Sandy regards the boy for a few seconds without saying anything. Notes how agitated he is. Tries to find a way to diffuse the explosive tension that's between them. "Fine—then you tell me, Ryan. If the file's bullshit—if I can't believe what I read in the doctors' reports and I can't believe what I see in the pictures—then you've got to tell me what went on."

"Why? Why does it matter? That part of my life is over. That kid." Ryan points to the 8-year-old version of himself. "He's dead. He's not me. Not anymore. I'm not that kid anymore."

He knows he's not making much sense, but he also knows that there's no way he's going to talk to Sandy about the things that are in that file. He's not going to meticulously go through the pictures and the home studies and the doctors reports and recount every black eye, every bloody nose, every broken bone. He couldn'tdo it--even if he tried. Not that he'd try. And not that it matters. Because the pictures aren't important—they're just a collection of completely inconsequential and random moments of time that happened to be captured on film.

"It matters, Ryan, because in order to understand who you are—to understand how we can help you—we need to know where you came from."

"Well, you're not going to find it in there." Ryan knows that the moments that really matter aren't in the file. They aren't in there, because there was no one around to take a photograph the first time he'd been beaten with his father's belt—the first time he'd been beaten with his father's fist—the first time Ryan had gotten his ass kicked trying to stop his father from knocking his mother around. Those were defining moments. Or even the good times. The birthdays when no one got drunk and no one got hit. The one time his father told him he was proud of him when he brought home a report card full of "A's." Those were moments that meant something. But, he's not about to talk about those, either.

"You keep saying that. But, if you're not going to tell me what happened—well, then this is all I have—and it's better than nothing."

"Has Kirsten seen that—the file—the pictures?"

"Not yet."

"But she will?"

"Yes."

"But not Seth?"

"No, not Seth."

"Okay." Ryan shrugs and throws his jersey over his shoulder, knowing that there's nothing more he can say—nothing more he wants to say. "Do you mind if I go to practice?"

"Nope. I'll even drive you."

"Thanks. But, no—I kind of want to ride. Clear my head a little."

"Makes perfect sense."

He starts to leave. Stops at the doorway. Turns back.

"Could you do me a favor?"

"You know I'd do anything for you, kid."

"It's just—could you please tell Kirsten not to believe everything she reads—or everything she sees in there?"

"Of course."

"And—" He pauses, not sure how to communicate what he needs to say. He takes a few moments before he tries again. "And—just tell her that the little boy in the pictures doesn't want—he doesn't need to be pitied." He hopes he's said it in a way that Sandy can comprehend.

"I understand."

And even though Sandy says the words—even though he solemnly nods while saying them—it's in the way his eyes maintain contact with his own that Ryan knows that he truly does.

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And with that, as my 2-year-old would say, "It's over." And I didn't even make Ryan cry!


End file.
